The Unbegotten (2 page)

‘Oh, have you,' he growled. ‘Let me tell you something. You're
mine.
Every part of you is mine. No other man's going to touch you. If one ever does, I'll kill him. Understand? I'll kill him.' Suddenly, he let her go, but before she could move he picked her up bodily and spun around, took her to the bed and dumped her down. As she bounced, he tore at the neck of her nightdress and ripped it open, ripped

it right down the middle, and then flung himself on her.

 

Later, she whispered hoarsely, ‘That was wonderful, Guy.'

‘Wonderful,' he echoed. ‘Perfect.'

‘I—I didn't mean a word I said,' she breathed.

‘Don't ever say it again,' he warned.

‘I—I swear I won't,' she promised, then gave a kind of giggle. ‘But if we don't have a baby after tonight we never will have!'

‘The thing you have to remember is that any babies you have are to be mine,' Guy growled, and there remained an underlying note of savagery in his voice. She was not only frightened but a little awed. He had never been so masterful, never shown how deeply he felt before.

And she loved him so. She did love being with him so; being possessed.

If only they could have a baby! For she really did feel a sense of shame because the women in her family were so fertile. There hadn't been a barren Blanding for centuries.

And it must be his fault. Whose else could it be?

 

 

Maddern woke soon after eight o'clock, the telephone bell ringing in his ear. As he hitched himself up and made ready to take it, the ringing sound stopped. He heard a voice not far away; Bertha Witherspoon had intercepted the call. She would come in, if it were an emergency. After a few seconds there was a gentle tap at the door; and soon another. He sat fully upright, and called, ‘Come in.'

She came in, carrying his morning tea on a small, wooden tray; on it was an old-fashioned brown teapot, a pink china jug and matching cup and saucer, grouped on a lace tray-cloth.

‘So you're awake,' she observed, as if disapproving. ‘What time did you get in last night, doctor?'

‘Oh, about three,' he answered.

She advanced and placed the tray on his bedside table, pushing the telephone and a notebook aside. She invariably ‘advanced', a short, very broad and massive woman with iron-grey hair arranged in a bun at the back.

‘You don't get enough sleep,' she said flatly.

‘Oh, I make up for it,' he said.

‘That's not true and you know it,' asserted Mrs. Witherspoon. She poured out tea, her hands red from scrubbing and the fingers square-topped but the nails a good shape. Everything about her showed strength. Yet she had never had a child, although she had married early and been widowed only three years ago. ‘Was the child born well?'

‘Yes,' answered Maddern.

‘Was it a boy or a girl?'

‘A boy,' said Maddern.

‘And the last,' she remarked, with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. ‘The last child on your list, doctor. Such a thing has never happened anywhere in my experience.'

He sipped tea, while looking very straight at her.

‘Who telephoned, Mrs. Witherspoon?'

‘It was Dr. Simister,' she answered.

‘And what did he want?'

‘He asked me to tell you he would be glad if you could see him and one or two others after surgery this morning.'

‘Where?' asked Maddern.

‘At the hospital, doctor. Where else would it be?'

‘I'll fit it in,' he said, resignedly.

Half an hour later, bathed, shaved, feeling surprisingly fresh, he went into the dining-room, it was a pleasant and unassuming room, with its small refectory table and old leather-slung chairs. The oak beams broke the off-white of the walls, a huge beam spanned the ceiling. The windows, of small leaded lights, made even bright mornings like this seem dark. Coffee was percolating; there was toast in a silver rack and fresh bread by a toaster, while a rich aroma of frying bacon came from the kitchen. He poured coffee as Bertha came in, bacon, eggs and sausages on a tray carried stiff-armed before her. She was quiet this morning; subdued. It wasn't until she had put the tray in front of him that she said, ‘It's not natural, doctor.'

He didn't pretend not to understand.

‘No,' he agreed. ‘It's very strange indeed.' He flashed a bright smile. ‘Perhaps the human race is dying out!'

She gave an unexpected, wintry smile as she headed for the door.

‘I don't know how you can joke about such things,' she reproved and went out.

Maddern, eating, thought: No, I don't either, and ate on with a curiously determined vigour.

Later, while he talked with and examined the patients who came into his surgery from the waiting-room, he saw all the younger women as under a cloud, barren women, many hating their barrenness. None this morning wanted help to make them fertile, however, and there were no serious ailments; a fretful little woman with headaches, a fat boy with stomach ache, a teenage girl with a big broad face distressed by acne, a rather handsome woman with sinus, a pale and limp boy of eight with anaemia. Such an ailment always reminded him of Lilian, but he gave her hardly a thought this morning.

There was only one child in arms, a three-month old girl, who was not keeping down her mother's milk; nothing else served to remind him of the babe born last night. He reassured the young, red-cheeked, blue-eyed mother, gave her the necessary advice, and then was alone.

It was a quarter to eleven.

The number of people at his surgeries these days was much fewer than nine to twelve months ago. It was surprising how many ailments sprang from pregnancy, or fell to the lot of the newly born. And it was hardly surprising that he was dwelling on that aspect of his work this morning. He went out to his car and found Mrs. Witherspoon, a woman of unbounded energy, cleaning the windscreen.

‘I'm going to call on the Gunnisons,' he told her, ‘and then on to the hospital.'

The Gunnisons, mother, father and newborn babe, were all doing fine, and he stayed at the cottage only for a few minutes.

Driving along the narrow lane towards the main road, he began to wonder what Simister wanted: which patient they had in common. The Torrent farm stood very sharp against the pale sky, and an old man watched him from the open doorway; the present farmer's father. How many generations of Torrents had been born there? At least six. Soon, he turned into the grounds of the hospital, which was a converted Georgian manor house, a gift to Middlecombe by the now-gone Golden family.

He checked himself from dwelling on how many Goldens had been born in this house, actually laughed, and then pulled up at a car park, screened by trees growing low to the ground – cypress and wych elm, chestnut and hawthorn. A dozen other cars were parked in this spot which was reserved for the doctors who attended the hospital. This was more than usual at this hour of the morning, and he noticed Sir Gerald Daley's Rolls there; Daley was one of the leading gynaecologists of the West Country and also a Harley Street consultant. He was puzzled by this, as he was puzzled when a man stepped out of the trees almost in his path which led to the side entrance of the hospital.

‘Good morning, sir.' The man gave him a searching glance: more than a glance, a scrutiny.

‘Good morning.'

Maddern went on, then saw another stranger, standing among the trees, obviously close to the path which led from a car park at the back. Two strange men – Good Lord,
three
!
The third was standing on the side porch, looking at a newspaper which he lowered as Maddern stepped on to the porch.

‘ ‘Morning, sir.'

Maddern did no more than grunt, as he went inside. He was agitated, without really knowing why. At least the entrance lobby appeared normal, Jeff Ockley, the head porter, and an ambulance man were talking to the telephonist, who sat at his old-fashioned plug-type hospital exchange, inside an open window office.

‘Good morning, doctor—'Morning, sir—Good morning.' He gave a general response, and then out of the corner of his eye saw a man he had never seen before standing by the switchboard. That made four strange men, and he had a feeling they were policemen; that the hospital was being watched.

Nonsense! he decided, and then opened the door of the Common Room. This was the room where all general consultations among local doctors took place; where general practitioners could talk with surgeons and specialists over the general problems of the day; the room, too, in which to relax and smoke and talk generally. Simister would almost certainly be waiting for him here.

The room was crowded. Not only Simister but most of the doctors in the area were present. Sir Gerald Daley sat on the couch with its back against the window overlooking more huge trees. With Daley was a man whom Maddern had never seen in person before, but whom he recognised on sight, because he had appeared often on television and his photograph frequently appeared in the newspapers.

This was a Dr. Palfrey, about whom one fact was beyond doubt: his appearances on these media always coincided with times of national crises.

Maddern was so taken aback that he stood with the door open behind him, staring at Palfrey. Simister, whom he had expected to find in a quiet corner, was actually by the door, which he closed quickly. He was a tall, dark, rather saturnine-looking man in a pale grey suit. Gripping Maddern's shoulder painfully, he said in a clear, carrying voice, ‘Now we're all here, gentlemen.'

He half-pushed Maddern towards a nearby chair. Chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, as they were when unofficial lectures were being given by top men in the profession, or by Ministry of Health or Home Office spokesmen, or lecturers from the South Western Hospital Board. Everyone was ready, presumably everyone had been briefed—except he, Maddern. He felt a rising exasperation. Resisting Simister's pressure, he asked sharply, ‘What is all this?'

‘Come, Reggie—' began Simister.

‘I came for a brief consultation with you and a few others,' Maddern insisted stubbornly. ‘That's what I've time for.' He was aware of Palfrey looking at him as if disapprovingly and had no doubt at all of the disapproval of several of his own colleagues. Palfrey's gaze, and a sudden, more vivid awareness of the man's reputation, made him wish that he hadn't forced the issue; but to go meekly to a seat would be abject surrender. With one half of his mind he wished he could crawl to the chair; with the other, he still felt annoyed, if not angry. After all, he
had
been brought here on false pretences.

So, he turned round and stepped towards the door. Someone started to speak but checked himself. Someone else began to move, but also stopped. He opened the door with a jerk – and came face to face with the strange man who had been with the telephone operator. There was no doubt that this man's simple purpose was to stop him from leaving. As he realised that, all the native stubbornness which characterised Maddern – although few people were aware of it – gathered strength.

‘Who are you?' he demanded coldly.

‘I'm sorry, sir, but I must ask you to stay.'

‘Never mind being sorry! Who are you? A policeman?'

‘Well, sir, I—'

‘If you're a policeman, show me your official card. If you're not, get out of my way.'

There was a long pause. The man in front of him, who had very clear grey eyes, certainly hadn't expected such resistance, and looked quite nonplussed. He made no move to show his card, nor indeed made any attempt to move at all. Someone behind Maddern began to speak, but Maddern went forward, swift and decisive. The man thrust out his right arm, to restrain him. Maddern took the wrist between his thumb and forefinger, gave a barely perceptible flick of his own wrist and sent the other flying back against the passage wall. As if he hardly noticed what he had done, Maddern strode out but had not gone a step before a man spoke from behind him. He sensed, although he could not be sure, that it was Dr. Palfrey.

‘Dr. Maddern,' the man said quietly.

Maddern didn't turn round as he responded, ‘Yes?'

‘Will you tell me where you learned judo?'

Briskly, Maddern turned, and made sure that it was Palfrey. The man of such renown was taller than he had realised, more powerful, and at close quarters, more handsome. He looked tired, but there was another impression, much, much stronger. He knew exactly what he wanted; there was determination of a most unusual kind.

‘I learned in London,' Maddern answered, at last. ‘At the Medical Association's gymnasium.'

‘I hope you will allow me to congratulate you; that was quite a trick.'

‘Thank you,' Maddern said, still stiffly.

‘And I also hope you will accept my apologies for the rather melodramatic nature of your welcome. It wasn't meant to be so formal. You happened to be the last to arrive, and the others had already been briefed. Everyone was asked to meet Dr. Simister, or Mr. Brody here, in an endeavour not to attract too much attention, or start anybody thinking too much. When they arrived they were asked if they would wait for a few minutes to hear a word or two from me.' Until that moment, Palfrey had spoken earnestly and looked almost solemn, but now his lips curved and his eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘Will you spare me a few minutes, too? It is for a very good reason, I assure you.'

With sharp relief, Maddern turned back to the room he had so recently left, saying, ‘Yes, of course.' The man whom he had hurled against the wall was standing upright, and looking at him, Maddern, as if with approval. Palfrey walked with Maddern leading him to a chair on one side, not the one towards which Simister had pushed him. As he sat down, Maddern felt a flush of embarrassment at his cheeks, wished heartily that he hadn't made a scene, and slid his right hand aimlessly in his pocket. The man next to him, Henshaw, the ear, nose and throat consultant, was pulling at a smelly pipe.

Sir Gerald Daley made a loud coughing noise, and then stood up. He and Palfrey were facing the twenty-odd doctors and surgeons in the room, and Daley seemed to be looking everywhere but at Maddern.

‘Great honour to have Dr. Palfrey with us,' he said. ‘
Very
great pleasure. Won't take up any of his valuable time. Or yours. Dr. Palfrey.' He grunted again and sat down, surprisingly embarrassed in the great man's presence. To find Daley ill-at-ease was like seeing a bubble burst; Maddern would never again be over-impressed by him at a consultation.

My God! If there
were
any more consultations for a gynaecologist.

Palfrey began to speak, and somehow this added to his stature; to his authority. Whenever he was taking some kind of positive action, he was very impressive indeed; it was as if speech revealed the strength and nature of the man.

‘Thank you, Sir Gerald.' He smiled briskly, reaching out to everyone in the room. ‘I think I should be very frank with you. First, I can't command it but I would be most grateful if you will treat what I have to say in strict confidence.' There was a round of murmured assurance. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I came here today because of the strange dearth of babies—indeed, of pregnancies—in this part of the world.'

Maddern felt a shock of surprise as Palfrey went on, ‘It is a phenomenon which has been puzzling the authorities in other places for a long time. If you ask me to specify the districts I can only say that various rural areas have been affected; that they are not restricted to Local Authority areas: in short, that this one is quite typical and that the general development of the situation has been much the same everywhere. I've been asked by the British Government to get what information I can. You may know that I have a peculiar kind of responsibility. As the chief executive of an international organisation known as Z5, I have to try to keep a finger on the pulse of any phenomena which might threaten mankind on a large or a small scale. And—' he put his right hand to his forehead and began to twirl a few strands of his fair hair about his forefinger ‘there could be no greater danger than the dying out of the race.'